Melanie McAllister
by suzjazz
Summary: A group of neo-Nazi teenagers have created a bomb and are plotting to blow up their high school. The story is told by Melanie McAllister, Red John's daughter, who is an FBI agent hired to the team six months before. Melanie and Lisbon take to each other right away and are close friends despite Jane's disapproval. Will their friendship destroy Lisbon and Jane's engagement?
1. Chapter 1

**I do not own The Mentalist.**

My name is Melanie McAllister.

Yeah, that's right. _His_ daughter.

So how did I become an FBI agent? That's not the story I feel like telling right now. But I'll tell you some things about myself. I'm thirty-three and single. I transferred to Austin from D.C. about six months ago to join Abbot's team. And what a strange team it is. Especially Patrick Jane. More on him later. The most unforgettable character I've ever met, as they used to say in the old _Reader's Digest_. Don't ask me how I know this. I'm a gold mine of useless information.

This story is mostly about Special Agent Teresa Lisbon and me. We really hit it off from the beginning. She's like the sister I never had. I liked the way she didn't take shit from any of the men, and how she was by far the best agent on the team. I felt that I could learn a lot from her. I admire her. She's a role model. And I like her a lot. She's been great about praising me to Abbott and asking for me to be assigned to partner with her.

I realized right away that she and Patrick are involved, and that they have a love-hate relationship. Sometimes more love, sometimes more hate. I guess that's normal with a lot of couples. [I wouldn't know. I've never been in a serious relationship. Haven't met the right guy yet, and I have to say there's not a great selection at work unless you like young nerds with pale blond eyelashes or boring career agents beginning to get soft around the middle.] Anyway, Teresa and I have to put Patrick in his place sometimes when he's being an arrogant bastard, which is often. I don't know how she stands it. I mean, OK, I can't help liking the guy. He's very hot and has a great smile, and he's very smart. But he acts like a little kid who's always being mischievous and gets away with it every time because he's so charming and clever.

As you might expect, Patrick's not thrilled about me being Red John's daughter and Teresa's best friend. I get that. It's like my father had one more evil game to play with poor Patrick and waited until after Patrick killed him to spring it on him. It was a very dirty trick, even for him. But all kidding aside, I can't help who my father was. I didn't _ask _to be the daughter of a serial killer.

Now, don't get the idea that I enjoy it. Most people don't know about it, actually, and I'd like to keep it that way. Thomas McAllister was a monster, and I'm lucky that Mom left him and took me with her when I was just a baby. So no cute father/daughter relationship, in case you were wondering. I never even knew him, but I knew about him. Mom told me. I even hoped I'd get the chance to take him down myself, even before I got into law enforcement. I wanted to stop him from killing any more people.

But I didn't know about Patrick.

When I heard that McAllister had finally been killed by the husband of one of his victims, naturally I was ecstatic. I would have done the same thing as the husband did even though it meant I'd have to be a fugitive. I really couldn't blame him. I'd heard that the man's name was Patrick Jane, and that his wife and child had been murdered by my father. But that was all I knew. It was from Teresa that I learned the saga of Patrick Jane and how he came to work for the FBI. And although he hates me because I remind him of his nemesis, I feel sorry for him because of the unspeakable suffering he had to bear for so many years. I wish I could tell him, but he's rejected all my attempts at friendship. He's told Teresa not to trust me and that he wants her to stop being my friend. But Teresa doesn't take orders from him. She doesn't hold my parentage against me. It's damn well not my fault that I was fathered by a sick, twisted, sadistic psychopath. I didn't inherit his diseased mind, for God's sake. At least I don't think so. I get my kicks by arresting bad guys, not by killing innocent people. So I _think_ I'm normal. It's going to take some work convincing Patrick, though.

The case before us now is some neo-Nazi high school kids who were planning to blow up their high school with a homemade bomb until somone tipped off the police. (Nice normal wholesome kids. Bet their parents are real proud.) The ringleader has disappeared and is believed to be hiding in the woods (he's a survivalist and the kids say he has a cabin full of food and ammo but no one knows where it is. Or more precisely, no one's saying.) The kid's name is Tim Carter. He's sixteen, and we have a photo and full description of him. His cold eyes glower from a hollow-cheeked, hollow-eyed face. His head is shaved and he has a prominent swastika tattooed on his bare scalp. So _very_ attractive and tasteful. You have to wonder about what kind of parents would allow their kid to do this. (Oh, I forgot: his parents were psychos and they're both dead now.) We're going to be talking to the foster parents tomorrow. Can't wait.

Teresa and I are at our favorite bar after work, munching on wings and drinking beer.

"Where's Jane?" she asks nervously. (It's so funny how she can't get out of the habit of using his last name.)

"Don't know. Wylie said he was interviewing the kids today."

She sighs. "They aren't going to rat on this guy."

"Oh, don't be too sure. Patrick knows how to get info out of people. Even teenagers. But I'm surprised he hasn't called you."

"I'm going to try him again." She picks up her phone and begins punching the screen.

"It went to voicemail. I swear to God, if he's doing something he hasn't told me about, I'll shoot him."

"Well, you know how he is. You're not going to change him."

"I'm sure he'll call." But she didn't sound sure.

"Let me know when he does. I'm going home to get some sleep."

"Me too. I'll text you." She gets up to leave and I hear her car's tires crunching on the gravel a few moments later.

Teresa has that look on her face with a scrunched-up brow and a frown. I'm feeling a little worried myself, but in the six months I've known Patrick, he's pulled a lot of stunts like this. Each time she gets mad, and each time he manipulates her into forgiving him. And oh, I almost forgot: They're engaged. Crazy, huh?

She told me that he never took off his wedding ring for well over a decade after his wife died. Then he finally got the courage to take it off, telling her she deserves to be Number One with him. Um, maybe I'm stupid or something, but dude, a woman isn't going to like you wearing a wedding ring from another marriage. Get over it. _Of course _she started to date Pike (whom I happen to know, but that's another story) She figured, he's never getting over his dead wife and he only loves me as a close friend. (Well, fuck me, how did she ever get_ that_ impression? Excuse my language. Teresa's a little shocked by it, but she's sarcastic like me.) I always wonder how people who are geniuses like Patrick can be so stupid when it comes to their own relationships. Not that I'm lacking in sympathy for the poor bastard. I mean, can you even imagine the horror of discovering…and then blaming yourself for opening your big mouth and poking the snake with a stick?

Patrick hates sympathy, so I'm careful not to hint or imply that I'm sorry for him. Still, he read me the first time he met me (he rudely refused to shake hands) so he knows I pity him and that makes him hate me more. Actually, I'm not sure he _hates_ me. At least, it's not personal. It's just what I represent in his mind. He has too much pride to endure being pitied by Red John's daughter. At least that's how I read it. I'm not bad at cold reading myself. I guess to be a good detective you have to be. I didn't have the opportunities he had to develop my craft by being in the con biz. But I have to say: My father was an evil bastard, but he was smart. Brilliant, even. And I think I got some of his smarts. Not to be conceited or anything, of course.

I remain at the bar for a few minutes after Teresa leaves, musing as I swallow the dregs of my Guinness. It's not my job, of course, to know where Patrick is at all times, but I think I have a pretty good idea. The bartender looks at me from the chest down, eyes lingering a bit on my cleavage before moving up to my face. (I don't overdo the cleavage on a work day. Women have enough trouble being taken seriously at the office without exposing the goods to every moron out there. I've adopted Teresa's uniform of shirt, dark jacket and pants, and the shirt's never unbuttoned past the second button.) This bartender is about to put the moves on me and I'm not in the mood. He knows I'm a cop, for God's sake.

"You're not going home?"

"Got any better ideas?" I shoot back, putting my hand ever so gently on my gun.

" Uh…no…just wondered if you want another one."

"No, I'm good." I smile my sweetest homecoming queen smile.

"Well, looking forward to seeing you tomorrow night," he says weakly, aware that his moment has passed.

"You bet." I throw some bills on the bar and turn to leave.

I get into my car and head off to Patrick's Airstream. He's taken to sleeping there sometimes when he "has to be alone to think." I never saw a guy pretend to sleep so much at work. I still can't believe the FBI gave him back his couch after they impounded it when they broke up the CBI. And the Airstream. And Teresa. He must have had a hell of a lot of leverage when they made that deal with him. According to Teresa, he tricked them into thinking he had the names of higher-ups in the Blake Association which might prove embarrassing if released. Abbott dropped the whole issue like a hot potato and caved. I have to admire the finesse. Like Teresa, I used to be a by-the-book agent until I learned that going by the book is for suckers, or as Patrick might say, _marks_. What I mean is, I have respect for the law and I'm pledged to enforce it. I take my job seriously. But when you're dealing with bad cops on all levels as with the B.A., you _can't_ go by the book. Frankly, I'm surprised that the Bureau seems to have dropped the investigation into my father's personal Mafia. No, I take that back. _Not _surprised at all_. _I even thought at first that Abbott might have been involved, but I'm convinced he's clean. Though that doesn't protect him from having to testify should any of the higher-up perps be brought to trial.

Teresa hates it that Patrick spends nights in his trailer instead of at her place, the home they are sharing. I don't blame her. I don't know what Angela was like, but if he wants to get married again, he can't expect it to work if he runs away from conflict. Maybe she tolerated it, but Teresa won't. Not for long. She has to believe that he'll come around and be willing to face his issues with her, or she'll just fall apart. She's not a woman who falls apart easily. But she's invested way too many years in him, way too much love and forgiveness for what she's getting in return. I'd be willing to bet that she knows he's in the trailer right now. I don't like to interfere, but something has to be done. So I'm going to give him a piece of my mind. At least, that's the plan.

**How's this for an idea? Let me know if I should continue this or if it's just a load of crap. There will be more back-and-forth between Teresa and Melanie and some suspense in the crime investigation…I don't have it all planned out yet but I was intrigued by running with an idea from one of my rare Mentalist dreams.**


	2. Chapter 2

I look at my watch. It's 11:16 pm. Not too late to show up at Jane's door. I briefly consider calling him first, but the element of surprise might work in my favor. I haven't figured out what I'll do if he slams the door in my face. I'm not afraid he'll pull a gun on me-he probably doesn't own one and he'd be a terrible shot if he did. Plus, he has no reason to shoot me. His weapon is his mind, and the most likely way he'll use it is by giving me a superior and sarcastic tongue-lashing. I'll admit that I wouldn't last long in a battle of wits with Jane, and it might be hard to keep my temper. But it occurs to me that this is a golden opportunity to allow Jane to read me. He'll find out that I'm not a fiend, that I genuinely like him and want him to like me as Teresa's friend. Problem is, she told me that during the month or so she was dating Pike, he seemed unable to read her at all. Maybe when panic sets in, his powers go out the window. It's quite possible that he's afraid of me. Not to the point of panic, but it's got to be scary to be face to face with me. I don't think I look like McAllister-I favor Mom's side of the family, thank God-but just knowing whose genetic material forms half of my DNA is enough to spook him.

I get to the FBI lot and park at a good distance away from the Airstream. I see a light on inside as I approach stealthily. I can't hear very clearly but it sounds like there is classical music playing. I rap on the door.

"Who's there?" His voice, querulous, annoyed at being disturbed. "If that's you, Wylie, or Cho, go away. It's the middle of the night."

"It's only eleven," I respond in a loud voice. "It's Melanie. And I want to talk to you."

"Forget it." His tone has become distinctly icy.

"Come on, Patrick, just a little chat. I'm not going to hurt you. How many times do I have to tell you: I am not my father!"

"The apple, as they say, doesn't fall far from the tree."

"Seriously? You don't believe that crap."

He wrenches the door open and is suddenly staring at me face to face. His hair, always untamed, is unusually messy, as if he'd just awakened. He has a day or two's worth of scruff on his face, which actually suits him. Not all men can pull that off. His eyes are red, whether from lack of sleep, drinking, or tears, it's hard to say. He's wearing an old cotton bathrobe with apparently nothing underneath. The look in his eyes is a combination of disdain, anger, and fear, with fear being the predominant emotion. He's evidently unable to hide it from me. For a second I feel sorry to have confronted him this way, without any warning. But if he'd been warned, he would never have opened his door to me. Even now, I wonder why he's doing it. Then it hits me: he's curious. Curiosity has trumped all of his other feelings, and just as I'd hoped, he sees the opportunity to read me and thus discover my weaknesses and exploit them.

His eyes narrow, but keep a steady gaze into my own.

"I'm only inviting you in because I want to know my enemy. And I'm only offering you a cup of tea because I'm a gentleman. I'm giving you ten minutes to say what you want to say and then you're leaving."

"Fair enough. But I'm not letting you get away with calling me your enemy. I've never done you any harm. I've never even threatened or insinuated anything. You're just prejudiced against me because of my father."

He's about to reply indignantly, but thinks better of it.

"Come in," he says acidly. "It galls me to be gracious to his spawn, but my curiosity needs to be satisfied."

"Why, thank you, Patrick, at least I don't bore you. I'll spare you having to be gracious. I take my tea with sugar and milk, please."

He glares at me. "Don't flatter yourself that I find you fascinating. I suppose the criminologists consider your father fascinating, but I only see him as the depraved rodent who murdered my wife and child. Even though he was a pathetic little man and a warped perverted piece of scum, he was diabolically intelligent. The only person I ever knew who could outwit me. Until he couldn't. I very much doubt if you inherited that kind of mental fire power."

I settle myself into the cushioned metal surface that serves as a couch and take the cup of tea he holds out to me. "Thank you."

"Just to be clear: if it's your intent to torment me by insinuating yourself into Teresa's affections, forget about it, because I won't allow it."

"How do you propose to stop me? And I'm not admitting to what you just said."

"I'm going to make her choose between you and me. Shouldn't be a hard choice. She already knows that she has to choose."

I roll my eyes. "I don't know which of these preposterous ideas to address first. At least let me defend myself from your insults. First of all, I never knew my father. All he did, as far as I'm concerned, was provide the sperm that inseminated my mother. (And how that occurred is not a place I want to go.) He abused my mother physically and psychologically until she left, taking me with her when I was less than a year old. She told me all about what an evil man he was. I was-I am-ashamed to be associated with him in any way. I read all the articles about him and swore I'd either catch him myself and make him pay, or at least be part of the process. Which is why I applied to the FBI as soon as I'd graduated from Yale. I got a scholarship, so yeah, I have some of that firepower, though I'm no mentalist like you. And probably not as smart as he was. But I can hold my own. And the FBI must have thought so, or they wouldn't have hired me. Though I heard rumors that they only accepted me for training _because _Red John was my father and they hoped to capture him through me, even after I explained that I had no idea where he was and had never had any contact with him." I pause to let this sink in.

Patrick's watching me the whole time I'm talking. I see his lower lip tremble ever so slightly. And I know that he knows I'm telling the truth. But he's not ready to admit it yet.

"OK, so you didn't know him, and you very nobly took up the cause to catch him and make him pay. Which was my personal vendetta, though you couldn't have known that. But maybe you did. How do I know he didn't contact you and use you as a spy? You've heard of the Blake Association. How do I know you aren't a member? For all I know you could be his heir. Carrying on his despicable work for him. It would be just like him to ensure that someone torments me until I die." Beads of sweat are forming on his brow.

"Calm down. Obviously I can't prove I'm innocent. But I think I have the right to be presumed innocent until proven guilty. Though I know you don't have any respect for the law. You decided that vigilantism was OK. Though I can't say I blame you, given the circumstances. So why should you go along with presumption of innocence and due process and all that tedious legal shit? It's natural that you should be wary of me. I'd be the same way if the situation was reversed. But even though it fits perfectly with your theory, my friendship with Teresa has nothing to do with you, believe it or not. We just really like each other and have a lot in common. I don't have to tell you what an exceptional person she is. I would have wanted to be her friend even if you weren't in the picture. That's the truth. And you know it. You can tell if I'm lying or not." I'm getting upset in spite of my resolution to remain calm.

Patrick doesn't say anything for several seconds. I seem to hear time ticking by in my head. To say this is an awkward situation is one hell of an understatement. He's looking away from me, his eyes downcast as though he doesn't want me to see that I've hit a raw nerve.

I decide to fill the vacuum. "Patrick, I'm as glad as you are that he's dead. And I don't care how. I would have killed him myself if I'd had half a chance and taken the consequences."

He looks up, and now his face looks defeated and sad, and I know he's thinking of his dead wife and child. I want to hug him and tell him I'm so sorry, but he would repel any pitying gesture. I'm afraid he might cry, and I'm not good at dealing with tears.

"Patrick, I'm asking you not to make her choose between you and me. It's not fair to her. It'll make her unhappy. But if this will help, I'll voluntarily stay away from her for awhile after explaining that I've talked to you. I'll give you two some space without me to work out your issues. I didn't foresee that you would be threatened by our friendship-I should have known this would happen. I'm not going to prove to you that I have no nefarious intentions toward you or Teresa. I don't have to and it's an insult to my integrity. Nor do I intend to allow you to control my friendship with her. And she's not going to take kindly to that idea, either. You know that she makes up her own mind. You've gotten into trouble before when you've tried to interfere. And you must have read me enough to know that I genuinely like you despite the fact that you're a pain in the ass. I don't expect you to ever like me, but at least accept the truth that I am not Red John or his heir or spy or operative. I'm an officer of the law and I take my job seriously. And if you really want to know, I was shocked when I hear the FBI made a deal with you, an escaped fugitive wanted for murder and a half dozen other crimes. You didn't have to give anyone up or divulge any useful information. You got a get out of jail free card from them in exchange for closing cases. And I have to admire your ingenuity, because you brokered the deal for one reason and one reason only: Teresa. You love her so much that all you wanted was the chance to see her and work with her again (never mind how she felt about the idea at the time) You're a man of many contradictions-a good and decent man driven by obsession to murder three people, a man capable of the most extreme forms of love and hate. A man with genius-level powers of observation and intuition who acts like a bumbling fool when it comes to personal relationships…"

"Stop! Stop right there, Melanie. I don't need you telling me what an idiot I was when I nearly lost her. You have no idea…you have no idea what I went through. You even admit that you have no right to judge me for what I did. And I'd do it again. I have no regrets for any of the murders I committed-they were all scum, and dangerous scum, and the world is better off without them. If I'd waited for the law to take its course with them, I'd be dead before they got what they deserved. Maybe I am still overprotective of Teresa, that's one of the things we argue about. You're telling the truth. I can see that. And I should apologize to you for my prejudice. It's not easy for me to admit I'm wrong about anything. But I still feel very angry with you. Maybe I'm jealous of the time you spend with her. I can just imagine the two of you gloating over the deficiencies in my personality."

"That's just what women do, Patrick. You can't take it personally."

For the first time, Patrick allows the glimmering of a smile. Not the full million megawatt grin, but it's an encouraging sign.

I stand up abruptly. "It's getting late. I don't need to remind you that we have a case. Did you get anything out of those kids today?"

"A few things. This kid, Tim Carter. He's the son of Timothy Carter, the man I shot mistaking him for Red John. His father was a pedophile who kept girls as sex slaves along with his craven wife. They're both dead now, the wife committed suicide in her cell. Good riddance. An odd coincidence, perhaps? But Timothy Carter senior knew Red John, there's no doubt about that. He told me things that only Red John could have told him. Carter was involved somehow with Red John's criminal empire, but I was never able to figure out the connection. This kid shares his father's penchant for degeneracy-which is one reason I do believe that evil resides in the genes. No offense, but you've got it lurking in there somewhere."

"Excuse me? This from a murderer whose father was a lowlife and petty thief con artist?"

"What I did wasn't evil. It was morally just. What your father did was evil."

"Don't call him my father," I snap, finally reaching the limit of my patience. "And it so happens that everyone is capable of murder, given the right opportunity. And all murderers justify their crimes-rationalize them, really. I don't buy your rationalization, but I have my own: you had to kill Red John yourself because the entire law enforcement system was riddled with corruption from top to bottom and it couldn't be trusted to find and arrest him, because guess what? He was at the top of the totem pole. That wasn't your motivation, of course, but I see it as an extenuating circumstance. Teresa and I both agree on that. And so does the FBI, otherwise they would have thrown your ass in prison."

Patrick stands up and extends his right hand to me.

"Let's call a truce for now. I can't help but see the irony of me shaking hands with you when I narrowed down my list of Red John suspects according to which ones I'd shaken hands with (here the full grin expanded) but hey, how else do we declare a truce? I'll let up on you and Teresa if you stay away from her until I can have a talk with her about this."

"Can I talk to her first?"

"Of course. I can tell that you are a woman of your word. And you are not your father. No way."

"I told you not to call him my father."

"Agreed."

We shake hands and I say, "See you tomorrow." I'm thinking, _Maybe things will be normal after all from now on. But with Jane, nothing's normal for long. At least I broke the ice. Now I have a headache and I need to sleep. I wonder what Teresa will say when I talk to her._

I head home feeling victorious.


	3. Chapter 3

Timothy Carter junior, known as Tim, ran away from home when he was thirteen. There was a significant age gap between him and his sister Julie, so when Patrick and Teresa questioned his mother at their home in the wake of Carter senior's death, Julie had only hazy memories of him. There were no photos of him displayed in their house, and no other sign that he existed.

He lived on the street for a time, occasionally getting meals and a bed from a Catholic mission. Since his parents never filed a missing persons report, as far as the world knew, he didn't exist. He'd known that they were both sociopaths—not the word he would have used, but he was well aware of their sinister behavior and their attitude toward him, which ranged from indifference if he was lucky to rage if he was not. Both of them engaged in beating him, burning him with cigarettes, and occasionally locking him in a hidden cell with some young girl they'd kidnapped.

As a child, he was only dimly aware of the nature of the horrors they subjected her to, and he was filled with guilt because he was unable to help the wretched girl escape. He was too afraid of them to turn them in to the police. But one day he'd had enough. They'd let him out of the cell, and he pretended to be going to school, even though he rarely showed his face there. He put his lunch, a toothbrush, a notebook and pen, and a change of clothes in his backpack and left the house trying not to think about what would become of his toddler sister Julie and the mysterious girl prisoner, Erin. He'd briefly considered taking Julie with him, but abandoned the plan because it was too difficult and dangerous.

He hitched rides until he arrived in Sacramento, where he survived by begging, stealing, and raiding dumpsters. This continued for about a year, when he was approached by a modern-day Artful Dodger who invited him to join a survivalist group. (He didn't discover until later that they were a neo-Nazi organization; since he hadn't had much schooling, he'd heard of Hitler and knew what a swastika was, but had no idea of the history or the symbolism.) The Dodger, a young man of sixteen named Lance, also a runaway, persuaded him to join the secret organization, saying that it was a completely self-sufficient community with a farm which grew its own food because its members didn't trust the U.S. government. Lance's job was to get recruits, which he accomplished by combing the streets and parks for homeless men and boys and offering them food and shelter.

Tim saw this as an opportunity to have consistent meals and a place to sleep. He was wary, as he'd slept in shelters for the homeless and knew they could be dangerous places. He carried a switchblade and wished he could get his hands on a gun. He kept a clear head at all times, never sharing drugs or booze with other homeless people. He'd developed survival skills well beyond his years, and at fourteen he was a tall, thin, dark-haired boy with a sullen expression, who trusted no one and suspected everyone he met of being a cop, pervert, junkie, or criminal. He didn't like the looks of Lance, but he was able to discern that he wasn't an undercover cop or a junkie. Pervert or criminal was harder to detect, but he'd keep his eyes open.

The clothes he'd been able to scavenge from the mission were old, dirty, ragged and ill-fitting. It was difficult to wash them often because he had to save up his quarters to buy toiletries and get a haircut. Occasionally he'd go to a laundromat, and people stared at him, making his cheeks burn with the humiliation of being a person the world at large regarded as a loser. He knew he would get off the street somehow. He just didn't have a plan yet. And Lance's offer sounded pretty good for now.

They were picked up by a bearded man in a Jeep as they stood on a streetcorner in Sacramento. If anyone observed them, there would be no reason to be suspicious—they were just three guys in a Jeep. Tim knew it was risky to get into a car with strangers, but he was an experienced hitchhiker and had learned to trust his instincts.

Their journey was a long one—Tim couldn't guess how many miles and couldn't see the odometer clearly, but eventually they got off the main highway and onto a secondary road, and from there, long winding roads that passed by the tomato farms and eventually led to a dirt road in a wooded area. The road led to a large clearing in the woods, which contained several single-story buildings built with gray shingles and solar panels on the rooftops. Behind the houses Tim could just make out a large vegetable garden. He heard a rooster crow in the distance.

Stepping out of the vehicle, he sniffed the air, which smelled of manure and wood smoke. It was a small community, but oddly there was no one out and about. There was almost perfect silence except for the rooster. Tim realized that it would be very, very difficult for someone find this place or to escape from it. Nervously he wondered what he'd got himself into. He hoisted his backpack onto his back and followed Lance and the other man (whose name was Rudy) as they walked across the dusty courtyard. They entered one of the anonymous gray buildings, which turned out to be a large dining hall. Rudy spoke a few words to a small wiry man seated at one of the tables, (Tim guessed he was the leader of the community) who simply went by "Boss." (Tim never did find out his true name.) The man had sharp weasly eyes and a couple of days' worth of beard. His head was shaven, and he was dressed in a T shirt and jeans. He appraised Tim with his strangely animal-like eyes.

"Welcome to The Community," he said, extending his right hand to Tim, who grasped it hesitantly, disliking its cold and slightly slimy feel.

Tim couldn't think of a response, so he merely nodded.

"We'll give you some tasks to do shortly. Then we have Meeting after dinner. Everything will be explained to you that you need to know. Rudy, show Mr. Carter to his quarters." Rudy, a large man with a broken nose poking out of a full mustache and beard, inclined his head to his right. Tim followed him through a maze of corridors until they reached a dull green metal door. Rudy silently produced a key and unlocked it.

The first thing that came to Tim's mind was "prison cell," and he almost turned and ran. But Rudy, who must have weighed 250 pounds, was not someone he wanted to cross. Instead, he looked around the small room. It was not a cell, it had a window with no bars on it, and he could easily escape if he wanted to. The single bed had an old brown blanket and some sheets on it, plus a pillow. A pile of towels sat on top of the pillow. There was a small nightstand and a bureau. The bare floor was made of some kind of plastic tile. There was a crude closet consisting of a metal bar and some clothes hangers.

"Bathroom down the hall," said Rudy, the first words he'd spoken since they met. Then, before Tim could ask him anything, he eased his massive bulk out the door.

Tim sat down on the bed, which had a thin, lumpy mattress. It sounded like he was going to have to do some kind of work in exchange for his accommodations. Lance hadn't told him much about the place other than that it was a farm where a lot of people lived. He'd been there for eight years. His parents lived there too, but he wasn't born there.

The teenage runaway sat on the bed thinking for a long time, wondering if he should stay or take his chances running away in remote territory. He decided he'd stay for now, but no one was going to make him stay. He was suddenly exhausted, and lay down. Then a knock sounded at the door.

"Time for chores," said a female voice, not unkindly.

**I condensed Tim's background to a few paragraphs without conversation intentionally, before reverting to scenes with dialog. I'm not sure if this works so tell me if it seems strange and disjointed that there is now an omniscient narrator (no longer Melanie's voice) I will return to her voice in the next chapter—she will be studying Tim's file.**

**I never intended originally to go into this much depth about the survivalist camp, and I don't want to make the story about it, but I felt it was important that the reader get a sense of Tim's conversion into a survivalist. There are some inconsistencies in my timeline—I'm terrible about remembering how old someone should be at the time of an event compared to the present—so if you find discrepancies, please point them out. I'm also terrible at remembering plot details from past seasons of TM, so if something seems OOC, let me know. **


	4. Chapter 4

I _really_ don't like this case. I'm reading Tim Carter's file, and I've learned more than I ever wanted to know about neo-Nazis, homeless teenage runaways, and survivalism. Which tends to attract the lunatic fringe obsessed with their Second Amendment rights.

There was an FBI raid on the compound about four months ago during which a ridiculous amount of weapons and ammunition was seized. "Boss" (whose real name we still don't know) was taken into custody and is now awaiting trial on weapons charges. The top henchmen were also arrested, which left a large group of cult members bewildered with nowhere to go. By the time the Feds got there, Tim had escaped. In fact, he'd escaped weeks ago when he got tired of cleaning latrines.

Tim had resumed living on the street for a while, but eventually ended up in a foster home (exactly how is unclear.) He had begun attending high school, where he converted a half dozen youths to the right-wing survivalist creed. They're a secret organization, and although at first all they did was talk about guns and bombs, it appears that they have assembled an arsenal. They've also been reading up on the internet about building your own IEDs.

An undercover operation revealed a plot in the works to bomb the high school. There's reason to believe that Tim's the ringleader, because the rest of the gang supplied us with that information. So far, they haven't revealed his location even under intense interrogation.

Tim's foster parents said that he'd disappeared two weeks before. They filed a missing persons report with the police, and a search of the area was conducted with dogs, neighbor volunteers, et cetera. So far, no trace of the boy. The police think he's hiding in a wooded area, putting his survivalist skills to good use. He's considered armed and dangerous.

It would be too much to hope for not to be assigned to the field in this one. I hope I can stay in the office while Patrick, Teresa, and Cho go to confront the little shit in his hidden lair. There will also be a _lot _of other agents. Someone has to stay in the office, and it might as well be me. I've been to one too many shootouts, and most of them don't end well. .

We all spent an hour being briefed in a pointless meeting which I think Abbott would have scrapped if he could have, but his superiors were hot on the trail. As people were getting up at the end, Patrick stifled a yawn, saying, "We'll never find him by searching. We need to lure him to us."

"And how do you propose we do that?" asked Abbott.

"Don't know yet. I need to lie down and think of a plan. But I assure you I _will t_hink of a plan."

Abbott sighed.

Teresa and I exchanged glances.

"Well, I've gotta go read his file," I said. "I'm volunteering to stay here while the rest of you are in the field. I've been to too many shootouts this year."

"You don't get to choose," said Abbott sternly. "You should know that by now, McAllister."

"Right, boss." I looked down at my shoes.

"But in this case I'm being magnanimous, so yes, you may stay in the office. But don't expect to slack off. We need your analytical skills."

"Can we get any of the boys to deliver a message to Tim?" asked Cho. "Someone must know where he is. W could tail him."

"I wouldn't advise that," said Patrick, who had settled himself comfortably at full length on his leather couch. I hope he realizes how good he has it here. I could be a mentalist too if I had a couch.

Patrick continued, "Sending a courier is good. Tailing him isn't. The courier must be trusted to bring him back to us. Which means he needs to be tempted by something he can't resist. We need to find out what that is."

He closed his eyes.

"Ja—Patrick! You can't take a nap now!" chided Teresa.

"Now, really, Teresa, you know I'm not napping. I'm thinking."

She rolled her eyes. I followed suit. We looked at each other and laughed.

"Are you mocking me, ladies?" He grinned in his most engaging way.

"You bet," I shot back.

"Wait 'til I come up with a brilliant plan."

"I expect you to have one in an hour."

Teresa smirked. "You can't rush him," she warned.

"Drinks after work?" (I'd forgotten my promise to Patrick to stay away from her for awhile.)

"Sure."

To my amazement, "Can I come?" Patrick asked, looking like an eager puppy. "I promise to behave myself."

I looked at him skeptically.

"Sure, why not."

It was going to be an interesting evening.


	5. Chapter 5

It's taking me a long time to finish this story and there's another in the works, so please bear with me. I'm not sure where this story is going exactly-I don't want it to be the stereotypical FBI confrontation with a heavily armed suspect in which the suspect takes a hostage and the FBI agent is forced to blow his head off. (I've watched way too many episodes of_ Criminal Minds._) I have to figure out how to get Tim and Julie together and have Jane involved in the solution (and possibly Lisbon, too.) I could probably write a whole novel about Melanie, and maybe I will some day, but right now I am going through a personal crisis and the writing is helping me maintain what's left of my sanity.

"Tempt him with something he can't resist." These words from Jane's idea were echoing in my head as I mentally reviewed the Tim Carter file. This was not going to be easy. Money wouldn't work. I pondered the problem some more as I sipped my Guinness at Rocky's. Patrick and Teresa were talking in low voices, heads bent and close together. Normally, I would have tried to eavesdrop, but this problem was haunting me and I knew I'd have to come up with something tonight. Patrick seemed too engrossed in Teresa to be thinking about the case.

And then, all of a sudden, an idea came to me.

Julie. His sister Julie, who might be persuaded to lure him out of his hiding place. Of course, we'd have to find him first. And we'd have to find her. She'd been placed with foster parents when her parents ended their miserable lives. According to my calculations, she'd be about nine years old now. I whipped out my phone to text Wylie that he needed to find Julie Carter, the sooner the better.

I hesitated to share my plan with Teresa and Patrick. For one thing, the plan might be too risky for Julie. If we let her go into his cabin or tent or whatever he lived in, he might take her hostage, even if she was his sister. We didn't know enough about his mental state. We'd have to let him see her or hear her voice so he'd know we weren't lying. She also might refuse to come with us. We don't know how close these siblings are. Maybe she's angry with him for leaving her behind when he ran away. But it's worth a try. Unless Patrick comes up with something better.

I wish I knew more about profiling survivalist teenagers. I've never had a case with one before. I'm not crazy about teenagers in general. Don't have enough patience for all the mood swings and the angst. And this was a kid who'd been brainwashed by right-wing psychos. At least, that's how we'd been briefed. Does a kid like this even still have family feeling for his only sibling?

At work the next day, I pondered this for a while.

Then I got up and went over to Wylie's desk. "Did you do a search on Julie Carter in the foster care system?"

Wylie looked up from his computer, his eager young baby face shining with anticipation. "Yup, Agent McAllister." His hands tapped rapidly and lightly across the keyboard. "There's a Julie Carter placed with a foster family on Maple a few years back. Says here the parents were Timothy and Diane. Father was the guy Jane shot thinking he was Red John!" Wylie's pale-lashed blue eyes were round. "And the mother committed suicide in jail after the CBI discovered she and her husband had been keeping a girl prisoner as a sex slave."

"How old is Julie?"

"Nine."

"That's the girl we want. Thanks, Wylie."

"No problem."

I wasted no time in conveying this information to my colleagues, who departed hastily to find the girl. I made a phone call to the foster parents explaining the situation and assuring them that Julie would be protected from harm. Then I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes for a few minutes.

As I expected, there was no problem getting the foster parents to release Julie into FBI custody. A lot of times foster families aren't very invested in their wards. And this family had other children to worry about. Poor Julie. I felt sorry for her. No one was worried about her safety. Except me, of course, and the other agents.

It wasn't long after this that Teresa and Kimball Cho arrived at my desk with a little dark-haired girl. Cho (as everyone calls him) is a steely guy, strong silent type, and I had him figured for a former gang member and ex-military the minute I met him. He usually wears a sober expression and rarely smiles—I've caught him at it maybe once or twice. Though he wants to be seen as tough, and he is, he has a side to him that no one sees: compassion for suffering, especially for children. I've heard it said around the office that he was once in love but it didn't work out. (Well, join the club, bro. But that's another story.)

Cho was wearing his usual serious expression as he sat down at his desk. Wylie cast a furtive glance at his mentor before returning to his screen.

Teresa, dressed in her usual black suit, nun-like except for the red silk cowl neck sleeveless shirt underneath which I'd convinced her to buy, approached my desk holding Julie's hand. She'd be a great mother, though I don't dare to mention it to her. She bent down and whispered something to the girl, who attempted a feeble smile.

The girl staring at me with wide, calm blue eyes was small in stature with pale skin and freckles. Her straight, shiny dark hair fell to her shoulders. She wore a blue T shirt with a picture of a dolphin on it, jeans, and sneakers. I could not read her expression. Maybe she'd practiced it on purpose so as to be inscrutable.

"Melanie, this is Julie," said Teresa. "Julie, this is Agent McAllister. She's my friend. She's helping us find your brother."

Julie solemnly put out her small hand when I offered mine. She didn't speak.

"Hi Julie," I began, deciding to address her as one would an adult. "This is probably really strange and traumatic to you, and maybe even scary, but you need to regard us as your friends." I saw a flicker of skepticism in her eyes.

"I don't know if you remember your brother very well," I continued. "I think you were only about 3 when he left. It would help us a lot, though, if you could tell us anything you remember about him: what he looked like, what kinds of things he liked to do, places he liked to go." I nodded encouragingly. "And please sit down. Would you like something to drink? A Coke? Agent Lisbon will get you one." I pulled up a swivel chair from a nearby desk. I wasn't going to take a child into the interrogation room. It just seemed so wrong.

The little girl was looking down at her feet and shuffled slowly into the chair, which enveloped her like a cocoon. She didn't look up for a few moments. When she did, her eyes were full of tears.

"It's OK to cry, Julie," I said. "I cry a lot. It's hard when other people are around, to let them see you cry. Would you like to go into a separate room?"

Julie nodded.

"Come with me." I took her hand and led her reluctantly to the interrogation room, but it was the only private space available. "You can sit wherever you like."

She regarded the big table, tears still standing in her eyes. I sat near one end. Slowly she took the seat next to me (instead of the customary across-the-table spot for perps.) Well, she wasn't a perp. And I hated that she had to be in this place.

Just then, Teresa appeared at the door with a large bottle of Coke and some glasses. "I thought we could all use a drink," she said, smiling at Julie, who still hadn't said a word in ten minutes. Unusual for a kid. Teresa poured the Coke into three glasses and set one in front of each of us.

"Well, that's more like it!" I exclaimed with false cheeriness. A tear rolled down Julie's face.

Teresa, who was still standing, came over to Julie and stroked her hair gently. Just a tiny gesture, but I felt some of the kid's tension dissolve. Teresa sat down next to Julie, and suddenly the kid got up and climbed into Teresa's lap. She put her little arms around Teresa's neck, hiding her face in my friend's shoulder. Julie's shoulders shook as she cried almost soundlessly. It was as though she was afraid to make any noise.

No one spoke for at least a minute, as we allowed her to cry. I wondered if there was an abuse situation in her home. I could tell that Teresa was thinking the same thing. It was really heartbreaking to see Julie turning to strangers for comfort.

"You don't have to talk until you feel like it," said Teresa gently, patting Julie's back as she spoke. "We've got time." And then the miracle occurred! Julie raised her head from Teresa's shoulder and spoke.

"Thank you," she said, sniffling. She straightened her body but remained on Teresa's lap. She reached for the glass of Coke and took a sip.

The large, wet blue eyes moved from Teresa to me as she spoke.

"I know you want to find my brother. I remember what he used to look like, but he ran away a long time ago. I wish he'd taken me with him."

"Yes, we know about your parents, and we're so sorry we didn't catch them sooner."

"They hurt us," said Julie. "Both of us. We hated them. And one day, Tim ran away. He told me it was too dangerous to take me with him but he'd come back for me. Well, he never came back."

"That's so terrible for you, Julie," said Teresa earnestly. "I'm sure he would have come for you if he could, though." But I knew she wasn't sure of that at all.

"Julie, we think he went to live with a group of people who have a lot of guns and can be very violent. Maybe he isn't like them, because he ran away from them a couple of years ago. We think he's living by himself somewhere in the woods. Some teenagers at the local high school have been found with a bomb that they were going to set off in school, and they say that he's their leader. We don't know if it's true or not, but we have to assume that he's armed and dangerous. But you will be very well protected. When we find him, we want you to talk to him. He may come back to talk to us if he can be reunited with you."

"How will you know where he is?"

"There's a team of people looking for him now with special dogs. It may take a while."

"Can I stay here until you find him?"

"You…don't want to go home to your foster parents?"

She shook her head. "They're mean. They yell at me when they get drunk. They hit me if I cry."

Teresa and I traded glances. "Teresa, could you get Austin PD to look into the foster home?"

"Sure thing. You'll have to get off my lap, sweetie, because I need to leave for a minute. But I'll be back."

She left the room, and Julie looked as though she might cry again.

"It's going to be OK. We're going to find him. I promise. And we'll find a place to live for both of you where the parents are kind people," I told her with more confidence than I felt.

Julie regarded me sorrowfully.

"Will the FBI shoot him?"

"No," I said uneasily. "Only if he tries to shoot someone. And we just have to hope that he doesn't. I wish I could tell you that he's not violent, but I just don't know. A kid your age shouldn't have to go through this. But we need your help and we're very grateful for your cooperation."

"I'm not afraid to go visit him," said Julie, with surprising emphasis.

"Good girl! And remember: someone will be protecting you at all times. Now, the next thing is for you to meet Mr. Jane." I sighed, thinking that Patrick would be a lot for her to deal with after what she'd just been through. But he's supposedly good with kids. Just an overgrown kid himself, that's why. But this girl had never had a decent childhood. She's been robbed of her right to be a kid and God only knows what she's seen and suffered.

"Who's he?"

At that moment, the subject of the conversation appeared in the doorway of the break room, I swear as if by magic. Patrick Jane, wearing a big smile, strode over to Julie, crouched down by her chair and shook her hand gently.

"Hi, Julie, I'm Patrick. Wanna see a magic trick?"

"That's Mr. Jane," I said.

"He doesn't look like an agent." Julie seemed fascinated by this strange man, but was eyeing him warily.

"That's 'cause I'm not an agent. I'm a consultant."

"What's that?"

I got up to leave.

"I'll just leave you two to get acquainted," were my parting words as I shut the door.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Author's note: I've finally gotten around to writing the last chapter. I've been caught up in a personal crisis lately which is tearing me apart, and I finally realized that it helps to write. I hope this story fulfills its promise. My original intent was to write a much longer story, but I don't have it in me at the moment. OK, enough self-flagellation…I'm planning to write another Melanie story and create a whole series! **_

You can probably guess how the Tim Carter Jr. story played out, but in case you can't, here's the story.

Patrick was able to enchant Julie into agreeing to anything he wanted her to do, and despite the fact that her brother abandoned her to her psychopathic parents, she was able to forgive Tim and actually wanted to see him. (I suspect that some hypnotism was involved here, but I'll never be able to prove it.) Naturally, Patrick took the credit for the success of this ploy, even though it was my idea and Teresa and I were able to gain the girl's trust before he got to her. I know, I know, I'm talking like a snarky little kid, but sometimes that man just gets to me with his smugness and conceit.

Anyway, the Bureau outdid itself in a veritable extravaganza of agents surrounding Tim's cabin (which was eventually found with the help of search dogs and GPS) asking him very politely to step outside with his hands in the air. They even assured him that they had no wish to harm him but only wanted to know the extent of his involvement in the bomb plot. When this unsurprisingly failed to get the desired result, it was Teresa who was chosen to brandish the bullhorn to announce that his sister was there and wanted to talk to him.

Whereupon a piece of paper slid under the door and was retrieved by me.

"He says _prove it_," I read. Teresa handed the child the bullhorn.

"Tim. It's me. Julie. Please don't shoot anyone. Just come out and talk to me. They won't do anything to you. I promise."

Another paper slid under the door.

"_How do I know this isn't a trick?"_ I read.

Julie sighed. "You don't know that. I get it. Maybe you're right not to trust the cops. But I've spent some time with them and they're really OK. Please. Do you at least believe it's me?"

Teresa stepped forward, saying "May I?" Julie handed her the bullhorn.

"Tim, this is Agent Teresa Lisbon. I know how threatened and angry you must feel. But you need to come out now. If you come out peacefully we can work out a deal on the weapons charges. And we don't know for sure if you were behind the bomb plot. I hope you weren't. Think about your sister. She's been placed with some bad foster parents. You could help her. We could arrange for both of you to live together in a decent home. Please, Tim. She's depending on you. You're all she's got."

Teresa has the gift of calming nervous and hysterical people. I've seen her use it before.

The ring of truth is always in her voice because she is incapable of lying. Tim must have sensed this, because the door opened a crack. Cho ordered the agents to stand down and hold their fire. All eyes were upon the very white, very scared, dirty face of a teenage boy. His formerly shaved head had given way to long unkempt hair that hung around his face, falling into his eyes, and he was trying to summon a sullen and hostile expression but failing utterly. His frightened eyes fell on Julie, who was standing holding Teresa's hand, about ten feet away.

"Come on, Tim. It's OK." Teresa used her gentlest voice.

And the boy hesitantly stepped through the doorway with his hands in the air.

This was not what anyone had expected. I could almost hear the collective sigh of relief.

The scrawny kid looked like he hadn't eaten a meal in weeks. He looked like he was about to cry when he saw Julie. Hesitantly he approached. She let go of Teresa's hand and ran to him, and they hugged each other. He whispered something to her.

Cho gave the order for the agents to enter the cabin to search for weapons and explosives.

Then he strode up to the two kids who were holding on to each other for dear life. They were clearly afraid of Cho, as everyone is who doesn't know him. His face wore its usual undecipherable expression, unsmiling and a little grim.

He looked Tim straight in the eye. Julie clung to her brother, trembling.

"Tim, I have to charge you with possession of illegal firearms and arrest you on suspicion of conspiring to set off an explosive device." The silent youth crossed his arms behind his back, allowing himself to be cuffed. Then Cho recited Tim's Miranda rights, and led him to the police van. Julie tagged along, summoning all her courage to ask, "Agent Cho, can I go with him? Can I talk to him? Please?" As Teresa and I helped the boy into the van, Cho gently grasped Julie's little shoulders and said, "You'll have plenty of time to talk to him. We have to follow procedure and keep him in a holding cell for now."

"Do I have to go home?"

"We're investigating your foster parents for criminal activity, so no, you're not going home. You'll be staying with Agent Lisbon for now until we can find a home for you."

"And Tim?"

"Depends. If he's innocent, he'll be released, but since he's a minor, he has to go back to the foster home he ran away from."

At this point, Teresa came over and took Julie's hand.

"We're doing everything we can for you, Julie. These are very serious charges against your brother, but he's young and even if he's guilty he will most likely receive psychiatric help and not have to serve a very long sentence in juvy." Teresa was trying to paint the most pleasant picture possible, and in fact this is most likely what will happen to the kid, but you never know. "You're going to stay with me and Mr. Jane at our house. You'll have your own room. He makes great pancakes." She smiled hopefully at Julie, who tried to smile back.

"But will they let me talk to Tim?"

"Yes, of course. But you mustn't be upset that he's in a holding cell."

"I won't be," said Julie.

And where was I during all this?

I had asked Cho to allow me to go back to the office to write up the report, and he had granted my wish. As I said before, I'm not crazy about standoffs, but this one had ended well, at least for now. I hoped to God that Tim wasn't involved and it was some other kid who orchestrated the plot. It turned out that Tim didn't have an arsenal in his house. No explosives or makings of explosive devices. A few handguns and a rifle, that was the extent of it. Illegal possession, though. But maybe the kid needed protection from the nutcases at the compound he'd escaped from. Who knows what kind of hell he'd lived through?

I finished the report before the end of the day. The other high school kids had to be questioned again—the case was far from closed. I hoped I wouldn't be assigned that job. This was a group of kids that I knew I'd hate. Ignorant, bigoted, lying little bastards. If justice prevails, they'd all end up doing serious time in juvy.

Teresa, Patrick and Julie had gone home together, looking for all the world like an actual family. I watched them leave, remembering my promise to Patrick that I'd stay away from Teresa for a while. Since I didn't have any other real friends at work, I ended up at the old watering hole alone. Which I really didn't mind. It always depresses me when kids get dragged into horrible living situations that lead to a life of crime. And I like Julie. I even like her brother a little. Tough kid. And I don't like most kids.

My friend the bartender greeted me jovially with a frosty mug of Guinness.

"Tough day?"

"It's always a tough day in my life," I replied.

He nodded sympathetically. "Where's your friend?"

"Home. Which is where I should be. And I'm leaving after I drink this beer."

He regarded me thoughtfully. "What?" I snapped.

"Nothing. It's just that…well, a smart, good looking woman like you shouldn't be a cop."

"And why not?"

"I dunno. You deserve something better."

I laughed mirthlessly (as they say in bad detective novels.)

"Maybe in the next life." I drained my solitary beer mug, threw some bills on the bar, and said, "See you around." And I drove off to my solitary apartment and got into my solitary bed. Alone, yes. But better than being with some bastard who sucks the joy out of you.

And across town were Teresa and Patrick, enjoying conjugal bliss while their temporary stepchild gets some peaceful sleep for a change. I'm like the maiden aunt. But maybe now I can be _their_ friend. As opposed to _her _friend. I don't know. It's hard to be friends with Patrick. He doesn't have any friends that I know of other than Teresa. At least he seems to get it that he can't just have her all to himself. She doesn't want that. Just because he has no friends doesn't mean that she wants to continue being friendless. Because that's something they shared: until she met me, she never let any female co-worker or employee get close to her. This is going to be tough, for sure.

And I don't feel up for it right now. But there's always tomorrow.

TO BE CONTINUED


End file.
